Just Admit You Have A Problem Day!

I drank too much of your face and hair and eyes (YOUR FUCKING EYES!) and now I'm bloated because I drank too much of your lips and neck and little baby shoulder bend and don't forget that sip I took of every nip of skin within a six inch radius of your belly button which was quite refreshing but did not stop me from drinking too much knee and head and top of your head and the balls of your feet and your balls and tongue and the three hearty gulps of the palm of your hand that I downed right after I drank too much of your breasts and hips and I drank too much of your toes and your crow's feet and I drank too much of your shaved arm pits and the way you grab my head when you kiss and the five fingernails of your pretty left hand and your pimple, pubis, ankle, tricep, eyelash, blue jeans, backside and right thigh and I also had a very tall glass of that sudden gasp of breath you took when you opened up your eyes and now I have to go and pee in some bushes.

Happy Just Admit You Have A Problem Day!

Horrible Horrible Christmas Day!

Just a reminder, really, but you've never experienced a Christmas that was anything less than a nightmare. And no, you're wrong, that one four years ago sucked too. Remember? God that was horrible.

Your family is the problem. They're all terrible people, and you're no picnic neither. Christmas is awesome for every other family in the world but yours. Even families who are starving and covered with flies think Christmas rules. Why do you suck?

It's September now. Less than four months before the shit hits the fan. I'm sure all your kin are kicking those drinking problems into third gear and rehearsing their "We Just Think After Forty Years Together The Time Is Right For A Divorce" speeches.

Happy Horrible Horrible Christmas Day! You're so fucked.

Kick Something Naked Out Of Your Bed Day!

If you're smaller than the naked thing and can't actually kick it out of your bed, just scream. Wail and sob and pound on the wall until it stops running around in circles on the bedspread or saying bullshit like "But I'm your wife" or "But I paid you 200 dollars" and finally just scurries away to find socks or food. Make sure to get your head out from under the pillow when the Little Mr. or Ms. Nudie Nudie goes running for the door because some things look awesome without any clothes on. Others don't. Either way, we'd look if we were there. What are you depressed? You get bonus points if the naked thing you send running is an Uncle by the way.

Pets count today, but not for much, since pets are always naked. Unless you're fucking disgusting and you dress up your pets in little outfits just so you can slowly undress them while holding their gaze with a look of trust and wonderment. But yeah, you can use your pet for this one if you just wanna go through the motions. Like saying Grace at dinner really fast so it's all one word. But if you aren't sincere about your observance of today you will burn in hell you know that right?

And of course, you yourself can sub in as the naked thing. Just take off all your clothes and lay down and then tell yourself you're disgusting and hit yourself in the face really hard a lot of times until you wriggle and roll out onto the floor. And again, I know a lot of people wake up this way every morning so make sure when you do it you're doing it because you want to be a good person.

Last time this day came around, one guy decided to be funny and kicked a naked sex doll out of his bed. While this counts, and it's really funny, that guy committed suicide not long after. He hanged himself.

Happy Kick Something Naked Out Of Your Bed Day!

Be The One People Go To When The Police Are No Help Day!

Do you like free fruit? Well, why not build up a mythology around yourself that paints you as a fair yet merciless body of justice? Some of your deeds should and will be fabricated, but there must be at least one, perhaps the most impressive tale from your folklore, wherein the fabrication pales in comparison to the true account of the sober and seeming superhuman determination with which a wrong was righted at your hand. If you get all that shit going for yourself, then when you try to buy oranges from street grocers, they'll refuse payment. And not just because you helped their son-in-laws gain citizenship or because you hobbled their daughters' date-rapists. But because in other countries, it's practically included in the town charter: "Free Fruit For Those Who Obey The Law That Is Written In The Heart Of Man."

You are going to have to carry yourself with a little more confidence if you wanna pull this off. Vigilantes rarely ask their mirrors, "Do I look fat in this sweater?" Also, take down that online personal ad. Or at least hide your profile. Are neighborhood drug lords really going to fear the "Personal Of The Day?" Sure, you can ask what the neighborhood drug lord was doing browsing online personal ads anyway? And he'll probably respond, "I was looking for someone who shares my love of Noh Theater and who might like to go hiking on occasion and who thinks Olives with Pimento are sexy but Olive Oil overflowing from a belly button is sexier. What's your excuse, Bronson?" Well?

Trust me, once you start spending your nights scrubbing the blood from your hands, you're not going to want to place them upon the bare and seemingly endless skin of anyone for whom you might care. Heroes don't date, they brood. And they eat as many free tangelos as they can stomach!

Happy Be The One People Go To When The Police Are No Help Day!

Ears Day!

Wow, it seems like just yesterday it was Sunday, September 8, 2002. I was so high on Sunday, September 8, 2002. But why am I bothering to shovel boring little details like that into your ears. And on today of all days, when your ears are going to be full to the brim with tongues.

That's the thing that sucks about Ears Day. No one really has any imagination. It's always, "Whoops, almost forgot about Ears Day. C'mere lady." Then SPPLIIISHNCH! The tongue goes slithering into the canal like there's a whole wad of chocolate icing in there waiting to be slopped up. And usually there isn't even a thought about the chili dog that was just gobbled up. A gargle with a dixie cup of water is too much to ask? And then right when you manage to quell thoughts of how awful your ear is gonna smell when all this is through and you actually start to dig getting your wax shoveled, bam, the dude hops off the trolley and you're there clinging to the hand rail and kind of involuntarily flexing all your naughty muscles, causing you to twitch your midsection a bit which everyone around you finds to be just so friggin' hilarious. Why does every Ears Day have to end with a trolley full of jerks laughing at you because your pants are still on and they can tell you wish they weren't?

It doesn't have to. So much more can be done to the human ear besides just sending a tongue glischping full-throttle towards the cerebellum. And did you know that 76% of Americans don't like it that much when strangers lick them? It's true I think!

Just because the ear is near the mouth on heads, it doesn't mean there is no other way to honor it but with french kisses. Have you considered panting a name into it? Or buying jewelry for it? The draping of genitals overtop of it can really win over some folks. And then there are of course those whispered confessions of longtime admiration from afar or patricide.

All I'm saying is Ears Day used to rule before we as an American workforce got so friggin' lazy. I blame liquor.

Make Ears Day Count!

When You Get The Call About The Credit Card You Left At The Bar Last Night, Propose Day!

The waiter/waitress on the phone will be berating you. Not just for being a miserable drunk. "That's a given," he or she will say. But for walking out without making sure to sign off on the well-above 20% tip that he or she deserved for having to put up with you and your friends all night. He or she will start in on how a 15% gratuity was automatically added to your bill, just like the sign behind the bar says, but if you want your card back there'd better be a twenty in your palm when you show up and what do you think he or she brings whiskeys to pieces of shit like you for college credit? That's when you pop the question.

"You're absolutely right. Will you marry me?"

This will be followed by a moment of silence. Then the waitress/waiter will probably accuse you of still being drunk and might get so angry as to threaten your life. Don't say anything else unless you wanna go through with the marriage. If you were to go, "Oh, yer a feisty one aren't ya'?" you'll probably remind him or her of that on-again off-again fling he or she had with an irresponsible but scalding hot substance abuser who finally disappeared a year ago and is probably dead. What I mean is, he or she will want you like you're truth. So don't say that. And don't say, "Do you exert this much rage in the sack?" That's just kind of dumb.

So just giggle a bit until you hear a click. Then you can lay back down and continue sleeping it off. But of course, you won't be able to since you'll wonder if you just threw away your last shot at The Big One. Stop using your heart as a punchline.

Happy When You Get The Call About The Credit Card You Left At The Bar Last Night, Propose Day!

Plant Seeds For Revolution And Gladiolas Day!

I don't know if now is planting season for gladiolas or not because I actually sometimes have to fulfill obligations that keep me from rolling around in the soil on my front lawn every fucking weekend. One thing I do know is that this country has a ruling class consisting of around 1% of the population. The other two hundred some million: Motherfuckers with tiny paychecks and baseball bats. The working man is almost ready to tear this shit down. I say almost, because another thing I know is that you shouldn't plant the seeds for revolution until early winter. Specifically Christmas. No one likes to be poor at Christmas.

So I'm a little early on the planting the seeds for Revolution part. And the gladiolas part, who cares. The seeds were 79 cents. So anyway, we'll talk after Thanksgiving about the whole "Kill Rich People And Live In Their Houses" thing. And if these gladiolas manage to grow, I'll call you. I guess next Spring right? What do gladiolas look like? Do you wanna go get a drink with me? I wanna get a drink but I don't wanna get one alone again.

At Least You're Not A Snowboarder Day!

"What do I add up to?" you ask. "I stage absurdist, site-specific dramatizations of jingoistic WWII newsreel texts with a post-feminist gender-terrorism bent." You rub your face and you rub harder and harder in hopes of scrubbing it clean off your skull until you wail into the mirror, "IN AID OF WHAT?!!!"

Cheer up, Sven. At least you're not a snowboarder.

Think about it. How would you like to spend your nights tending to the bleached tips of your dirty blonde dreadlocks? Can you imagine if you had to wear wraparound mirrored sunglasses everywhere you went? And let's not forget about that crowd of underdeveloped teens you call your friends. They can barely form a sentence of English coherent enough to get information as to which aisle the six-packs of Squirt are shelved. Plus, at least three of them are queer but don't know it yet.

Sure, you might be able to sink into a blossoming romance with the hot new children's ski instructor who stands out at the resort because she has a brown bush. But romance or no romance, snow is still fucking freezing. It's also slippery, so if you have to go barrelling down a hill full of snow every day on a piece of hardened pylon you're going to fucking die. No, really. YOU. ARE. GOING. TO. DIE.

Be happy with who you are. You get to wear winter jackets that aren't a patchwork of seven different neon colors. Now get back to work.

Happy At Least You're Not A Snowboarder Day!

I Think Malkovich Was Totally Faking Blindness Just To Get A Look At Sally Field's Sweet, Sweet Ass In Places In The Heart Day!

It was a con. The whole movie was just this excruciating buildup of one-sided sexual tension, Malkovich not being able to sleep at night, aghast at the lengths to which he'd gone just to see a farmer lady get naked, moaning and throwing himself against the wall and vowing to leave the very next morning, then finding himself unable to let all he'd worked for slip away just to appease his guilty conscience (all off-screen of course, but implied in his body language), until finally he couldn't take it anymore and he made up an excuse and just burst into the bathroom when he knew she was in the tub. And he was so immersed in the charade that even when he was there and finally in the presence of that rising and falling and floating and swaying skin wet and bare from top to bottom, he just kept on going, already thinking "Why tip my hand? There could be a next time. Hell, if she gets used to it I might get a glimpse of this shit every goddamn night. Fuckin awesome." But then his hand splashed the water, and he was thrown. The water, her water, the bath that had enveloped her skin, that same bath had just kissed his hand. He couldn't take it.

So he got the hell outta there.

The rest of the movie, as far as I'm concerned, was just a drawn out denouement. Even that bullshit about the tornado.

Happy I Think Malkovich Was Totally Faking Blindness Just To Get A Look At Sally Field's Sweet, Sweet Ass In Places In The Heart Day!

When You Overturn The Hyundai At Tonight's Race Riot, Make Sure Chicks Are Watching Day!

Shall we call you "Mr. Big Strong Tough Boy With The Impatience Of An Entire Oppressed Ancestry Stirring In His Belly"?

Or would a more appropriate name be, "Jeff Lonely?"

There, there, we all know how hard it is to find that special lady. Especially when you're so busy trying to tear down over 300 years of imperialist infrastructure one caved-in cop's head at a time. Who has time for dating?!

Well I think we both know where there's gonna be some pretty, white college girls who share your interests and would do anything for you if you would only tell them they're absolutely right about how ignorant their parents are. At tonight's race riot, that's where!

They're going to be watching you because they're not really sure what they should be chanting and when (the only one they know is "No Justice, No Peace" which they saw an angry mob chanting on MTV when they were 11).

No one's saying you're fabricating anything. You're a very sober man. Christ, you wouldn't snicker if the Chinese administered a tickle torture. All we're suggesting is, when you rock the Hyundai back and forth on its axle until it flips over to its side and finally tips over onto the roof, just put a little swagger in it. Chicks dig confidence and showboats get laid (FACT!). Can't you just hop up on the car's underbelly and start taunting the riot police from on high? If you get a blackjack to the neck tonight any one of those recently matriculated suburbanites is yours for the choosing. And remember, the jail cells are gonna be mighty crowded tonight and they might be forced to go co-ed. Those cots are wider than you think.

Just consider it. You might save yourself 35 bucks for an online personal ad. Good luck handsome!

Happy When You Overturn The Hyundai At Tonight's Race Riot, Make Sure Chicks Are Watching Day!

Let's Never Ever Move A Muscle Day!

Ya with me? The old widower next door just started playing that nine hour sad song on his piano so it's not like we won't have something to do. I'm betting we can stay still enough that people will think the bureau must've eaten a lot of sugar in comparison and so our bodies will forget to need to pee.

I just wanna figure out a way to make the world come down all around us without causing the old widower next door to stammer on a single key. Ya with me?

Happy Let's Never Ever Move A Muscle Day!

You're Already Losing Track. Write Down What Happened Before You Find A More Entertaining Memory Day.

So you'll start with his or her smile and then someone jostles you on a crowded sidewalk or you hear brakes squeal and you turn around to see if someone's gonna die (they never do). And when you get back to the narrative you've skipped ahead to when the beer bottlecap accidentally sliced open the bottom bone of his or her index finger. Then you're like, "Okay, the nudity came next. Focus, Steve!" assuming your name is Steve or at least you like to call yourself Steve. Then you hear, "Hey Steve!" and you turn around and there's a chick at the other end of the block yelling up at an apartment house window. "Steve!" Then she launches the half-full forty ounce beer bottle up in the air and it crashes just to the left of Steve's window. Then Steve comes to the window and starts shouting something about the Police and "WHORE!" and you realize they're not talking to you but they're still in love. So you stay and watch for the half hour until the chick gets her head bent low into a police car and Steve hails a cab to follow behind. So you continue your walk and jump back into the memory with a "Where was I?" But you don't have the slightest clue and way to go genius. You just skipped straight over the nudity to the part where you waited in line for an ATM with everyone asking you (and only you for some reason. must be your face. approachable? non-threatening? pretty?) if you tried the machine that already ran out of money and you keep having to fucking say "Yes" over and over again. Man, that's hot.

Just once, just one time, get somewhere quiet and write it down hour by hour, day by day. If you're afraid of firming it all up with the wrong words, put it into code or make it rhyme. No, you need not have someone following you around taking minutes every time you buy a taco, but it's just that whenever you try to run through it all and you lose track, you get this panicked "Did it really happen then?" look all over your face. And you're being really dull at bars lately. We want you back. Let it settle.

Happy You're Already Losing Track. Write Down What Happened Before You Find A More Entertaining Memory Day!

A Photograph Day.

You know which one. Even if you just got back from Rite Aid with 13 stacks all of the same mouth, there's one and only one that you'd run back into a burning building to rescue. Use it.

Put it under your pillow if you wanna dream upon it. Put it behind some fire if you wanna wish upon it. Send it to your ex-girlfriend's parents house with a note on the back that says "Having a great time at college" if it's a photo of your ex-girlfriend performing fellatio on her new college boyfriend that she sent you to let you know that she's not coming back. Ever. Rip it up just so you can tape it back together in a way that never quite joins right even though you know you found all the pieces. Tape it to your window so the street outside is the frame. Or just fucking hone in on it like you're a cat and you just saw a hand twitch underneath a blanket.

If you don't have the photograph I'm talking about, go outside until someone starts to matter. Bring a polaroid camera. Later, yo.

Plant A Shrub In Front Of Your New Neighbor's House Day!

Leave a little note in the shrub that says, "Hope you don't mind me taking up a little bit of your lawn there neighbor. Just wanted to plant a little symbol of what I hope will be our ever-growing friendship."

Then move.

Happy Plant A Shrub In Front Of Your New Neighbor's House Day!

You're Doing Fine Day!

You didn't know this, because I am very, very quiet, like a kitten who's also been trained as a spy, but I've been watching you all day today and I have only a few notes.

1. The grinding your face into the roll of toilet paper in the office bathroom stall and sobbing until you think you might lose your bearing. Someone else has to use that toilet paper you know. You couldn't just unroll a wad and kind of grind your skull into that? I'm sure all your coworkers appreciated wiping their ne'erdowells with your salty tear drops and boogies. Work on that.

2. You've been talking to yourself waaaay too much when you're in public. When you were in Toys R Us a 6 year old just stood there and listened while you moved the arms and legs of a Gandalf doll up and down and said, "Maybe I'm just fucking out of the fucking game. Fucking fuck me. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. I don't fucking care. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Gonna get tacos before I go home for fuck's sake why can't people just pick up a fucking phone and tell you what's wrong with your face? Or maybe Subway..."

Work on that.

3. Your bath towels need to be washed more regularly. That's why you always think you smell the inside of your ear. Work on that.

Otherwise, good job, yo. Now get good and drunk and go to bed. IT'S FRIDAY NIGHT!

Put Down The Mechanized Steak Knife And Kiss Me You Dick! Day!

Oh the heart is open to such poor interpretation.

You flick the switch to its highest speed and you think, "All the better to be rid of this swirl in my belly as quickly as a serrated blade can shimmy through a trachea." You take one step. Another. What are you waiting for? Take the next step, my hands are in my pockets. Go on.

Open up my throat.

Or are you starting to wonder what sort of misery might fill the gaping hole where I used to curl up and murmur. Maybe sending my blood flying up in the air like a firework isn't what'll make it all better. Maybe you wanna slice into yourself, into your past. Cut into a million ribbons whatever stupid fucking glance through a keyhole you stole when you were three that left you destined to yearn with all your being for a cocksucker like me.

You hate who you are. I hate who I am. Big fucking deal. Put down the mechanized steak knife and kiss me you dick.

If Happiness Calls, Tell It I Want My Fucking CDs Back Day!

Oh sure, a lot of people have borrowed my CDs then moved to other states or started dating my ex so I never got them back. But you'll never leave my side will you now, Happiness? Take what you want. You'll just burn them and get them right back? Take your time. Hell, I think I can go a few days without listening to Wowee Zowee for 10,000th time.

Yeah, a few days no problem. But a few months? Fuck you Happiness! You found someone else? Need your space? Trying to work some shit out about your dead dad? Boo fucking hoo, assdick! The next time I get an email from you it better be to say my copy of Begger's Banquet is sitting in my vestibule and that you'll sit in your car and watch to make sure no one steals it before I get down there to pick it up and when you see me you will simply pull the fuck away without so much as a wave goodbye, you understand. You wanted to split? Fine. You figured out a real pussy-ass way to do it. But now that you're gone, stay gone. BUT GIVE ME BACK MY MOTHERFUCKING COMPACT DISCS YOU CUNT!

My middle name isn't fucking Columbia House. By the way, I saw you the other day in the lobby of a movie theater. You looked thin. Are you okay?

You're Their Coach! Day!

Today I'm afraid you're going to have to do a little more than hand out laps around the field. For the majority of that ragtag bunch of losers (who've got more pluck than you'll find in any rich boy driving to school in a convertible, excluding of course the rich boy who is engaged in a doomed romance with a poor girl) you're the only daddy they got. You may not've asked for it, but I'm afraid you got the job.

You're their coach! They look up to you. Now one of your players' girlfriends is pregnant and he needs your advice. You tell him to convince her to have that baby and be a father to his child. Why, I don't know. Just do it!

Tell everyone else to major in auto repair.

Happy You're Their Coach! Day!

Nosebleeds Mean You Aren't A Magical Fairy Day!

So don't freak out that you've been drinking too much and dried out your nasal cavities or that you have a tumor. At least you're not some ethereal little boy-bug who flits around forests giving a shit only about whether humans are gonna be all right and not caring a damn about himself. You'd look awful if your skin had gauzey scarves attached to it. Let the blood flow.

Happy Nosebleeds Mean You Aren't A Magical Fairy Day!

Don't Change Your Address Until You're Sure No One Could Give A Shit Day!

Perspective, we're talking. Irony is always messing about, and the most overt it can get is when you have no idea what's at play.

For example, you're lying there on your undressed mattress in your 8 square feet of bedroom and everything's so static and still your pulse just stopped. Nothing will ever happen. Never again will you ever see a reason to put on black shoes (a funeral is too much too ask?). The phone is not going to ring and you will most certainly not open your front door on a rainy night to see a suitcase and a wet face you thought you never wanted to ever see again ever only to discover at that moment that all those empty hours were just you waiting for that knock on the door. And that face won't ever ask for "money. whatever you can get in cash before dawn" but if it did, you wouldn't even care. You'd see it as the price of admission for (FINALLY!) a movie of your life that's worth watching. There, on your undressed mattress, wallowing in regret over that last self-admiinistered orgasm, you know that you couldn't even get the fire department to drop by if you set the building on fire and stuck a Tot Finder sticker to your bedroom window. However...

While you're singing "Poor Poor Boring Old Me" by Pity Partridge and the Sad Boys, somewhere on some nameless interstate highway someone's got his or her thumb out over the road. The thumb casts a shadow over those lips that once spoke those four beautiful words, "You Ruined My Life." There's a rig coming down the road, and it's slowing to a stop.

I'm just saying, don't go back to Illinois yet. You never know who might drop by. Happy Don't Change Your Address Until You're Sure No One Could Give A Shit Day!

Some Dude Named Pendleton's Got Cancer Day!

Today is the day that people who wish to congregate in honor of things can come out on the streets to congregate in honor of the fact that some dude named Pendleton has cancer.

"I heard he lives in Nova Scotia," a man you've just met will say to you and some others waiting in line for coffee.

"I once dated a girl whose last name was Pendleton. She didn't have any brothers," another fellow will offer.

"Anyone hear what kind of cancer he has?" a little boy will ask. The boy is a thief and a liar and he will one day grow to be a man who will lead a crowd even larger than the one that has gathered today. He will lead that crowd to its death.

"No," you'll say. Others will shake their heads.

A selfish man might begin, "I sure hope I don't get cancer because dying of cancer really sucks the big--" and he will be silenced with shouts of "How could you be so selfish as to draw attention away from some dude named Pendleton to your own concerns and fears?!" and "What a cuntwad!" This man will remember all of your faces. Mark his words.

Anyway, after a few hours most everybody will realize it's almost time to eat and the crowd will disperse, content that they spent their Saturday afternoon doing something. And there were other people there to see it, even.

Happy Some Dude Named Pendleton's Got Cancer Day!

Smiles Are Contageous. Get Tested. Day!

I hate today as much as you. It's just a dumb joke that means nothing. Today is basically the bumper sticker stuck to the back of the stupider Gods' cars. It's a tee shirt one of the Gods bought at a boardwalk and that he still wears to parties and to other boardwalks. A lot of the Gods actually are really embarrassed by today but when they were brainstorming all of the holidays, word got out to the dumber Gods and they showed up to the bar where everything was going down and they kept shouting out shit like, "How bout 'Eat Pussy Day!'"? Then they'd high five each other. Eventually, the Gods realized they had to throw the asshole Gods a bone and include a few of their holidays so they wouldn't hurt their feelings (even though the shitlicker Gods are sort of annoying, they're still cool to go out drinking with so no one's really going to cut them off). There'll be a few of these. Whatever.

Anyway, happy uh Smiles Are Contageous. Get Tested. Day! (jesus.)

Love Me Until I Have To Tell People I Fell Down Some Stairs Day!

Love me so hard and so often and so stupid crazy that when people ask, "Why don't you have money for food?" I'll have to say, "No one I know drinks. I'm just saving up for an expensive pair of shoes."

Love me so raucously you leave bruises like bracelets round my wrists and when people ask why I wear three watches on each arm I'll just have to tell them, "Swatch is coming back in a big big way."

Love me till I leap out of my chair at loud noises shouting "No No I'm sorry I'll be quiet!" and then have to promise everyone in the conference room that I'll be switching to decaf post-haste.

Love me with a fury that makes me think I'm a filthy, filthy whore who deserves to die 'neath an overpass alone and forgotten so that I assume all human interaction is about getting the upper hand and making sure the payoff is in your fist up front so that when my friends compliment me on my outfit I stiffen and ready myself for the hustle that's sure to come and they can hear in my voice that my defenses are going up when I respond, "This old thing?"

Love me, I won't sleep.

Love me, I won't wash.

Love me 'til I'm on a bus back to my parents' house.

Love me. It's on.

Happy Love Me Until I Have To Tell People I Fell Down Some Stairs Day! Now give me my roses.

Go To A Dinner Theater Featuring A Magic Act And Ask The Magician "If You're So Fucking Magical Why Haven't You Taken Over The World Yet?" Day!

He's probably used to this kind of heckling and he'll most likely reply by lifting one eyebrow and leaning in towards you and saying, "In time..." The crowd will laugh and the magician will think he's got the upper hand. That's when you shout "YOU SUCK!"

He's probably used to this kind of heckling too and he'll most likely reply by lifting one eyebrow and leaning in towards you and saying, "Hey look pal I don't go down to the bus depot men's room where your mom works and slap the syphilitic dicks out of her mouth!" The crowd will laugh and the magician will think he's got the upper hand. That's when you shout "I'M YOUR TWIN BROTHER! THE ONE YOU THOUGHT DIED AT BIRTH! IN REALITY, OUR FATHER WAS A SCHIZOPHRENIC WHO TURNED TO RELIGIOUS FANATICISM FOR ORDER AND HE BELIEVED THAT THE CONCEPTION OF TWINS WAS THE WORK OF THE DEVIL AND THAT ONE OF US WOULD BE INFUSED WITH THE POWER OF DARKNESS! BASED ON MY EYES, HE ASSUMED IT WOULD BE ME AND SO HE SOLD ME TO A MAN IN HONG KONG WHO DEALS IN SUCH THINGS, THE BUYING AND SELLING OF CHILDREN I MEAN! BUT YOU BEING A MAGICIAN, PERHAPS OUR FATHER WAS RIGHT ABOUT ONE THING, THAT ONE OF US WAS A CONDUIT FOR THE DEVIL! BUT HE MADE THE WRONG DECISION ABOUT WHICH CHILD IT WOULD BE! ANYWAY, WE HAVE THE SAME MOTHER SO IF YOU KNOW WHICH BUS DEPOT SHE SUCKS DICK AT, PLEASE TELL ME AS I WISH TO REUINTE WITH HER! OH, AND UH, DINNER THEATER EH? YOU'VE COME A LONG WAY BRO!"

He'll most likely break down on stage and hold out his arms to embrace you. That's when you climb up on stage and accept hs embrace, to the heartened applause of the crowd. Then just as the curtain is closing, jam the shiv in his side for you are there to assassinate the man after all are you not?

Happy Go To A Dinner Theater Featuring A Magic Act And Ask The Magician "If You're So Fucking Magical Why Haven't You Taken Over The World Yet?" Day!

Curiosity Might've Killed The Cat, But Handguns Kill Six Hundred Million Americans Every Day Day!
And you know when curiosity doesn't kill the cat? When the cat gets curious about a loaded handgun lying on a bureau pointing at a woman making love to a man who is not her husband but is an employee of the gas company. Well, when that cat starts poking and sniffing around the trigger of that handgun to see if it smells like ass, guess who's meter reading is gonna yield a big fat zero (the meter of the guy who works for the gas company who actually knocked on the door to read the woman's gas meter but she suggested they "do it" instead. Or not instead, but before he reads her meter. And I don't mean "read her meter" to be read as a double entendre, even though it would've made a good one). Yep, someone's about to run outta gas (the guy who works for the gas company I mean). I know one little housewife who's about to regret not switching to oil heat (the housewife who's about to be pinned underneath the naked corpse of a gas company employee who's head has recently been caved in at the paws of a cat who's curious about that handgun everyone was talking about a few sentences ago, s'what I'm saying. Also, she'll still have him inside her when he is officially dead. It'll take more than a couple of scalding hot showers before she can wash that memory out of her vaginal canal).

So if you have a cat, be sure to aim the handgun lying on your bureau away from the bed where you and the employee of a utility company are engaged in intercourse. Six hundred million every day. This madness has to stop. Kittens are prettier than cats.

Win Something Day!
You could go for a stuffed animal at a fixed carnival game of "Shoot The Milk Bottles Down With An AK-47". Or maybe it's time you tried to win your wayward boy/girlfriend back from that society type who may know what to do with the second fork from the left but sure don't know how to turn the back seat of a chevy into a conjugal bed when they're parked in front of a moonlit reservoir. Whatever you win, you'll be disappointed because shit you win always comes with a catch or it's just cheap goods with a stain all over it that's hidden when it's hanging on a makeshift wall fifteen feet away.

For example, let's say you manage to shoot down all those milk bottles crackety crack and you get to pick any of the top shelf biggest stuffed pink bears wearing sun visors that might strike your fancy. Guaranteed, no matter what you pick, it's gonna be leaking stuffing or it'll have a stain all over it, like a water stain, that you don't notice until you give it to the little 9 year old neighbor boy who's been stirring disturbing and until now dormant feelings in your belly. Who wants to see a kid's eyes light up then get all squinty and grossed out when he realizes he was given a shit bear?

Or maybe you finally win your girlfriend back from that society type. I bet when you look closer, she'll be pregnant with the baby of some other dude you never even heard of or she'll have a stain all over her, like a water stain. And she's not even wearing a visor. Sorry, but you won fair and square.

So yeah, win something today. It's about time you learned that if you want the brass ring you gotta work for it. And if you win the lotto you might as well just kill yourself with pills right now because you are so screwed I'm actually sad.

If You're Happy You'll Probably End Up Getting Mauled By A Puma Or Something Day!

Think of it this way. If you were one day skipping down the sidewalk and you stopped in your tracks because you realized at that moment you could honestly say that you were unequivocably happy and all of a sudden a puma flies out of nowhere and mauls you until you're just some intestines and some empty skin, wouldn't your last words be, "Figures!"

Mine might be, "Heh, ain't it always the way Kash?" But that's only because I am at all times accompanied by a wise old man who goes by the name of "Kash." He was a fixture of many intellectual circles across the country and can be found in the index of many of your more entertaining volumes of memoirs. Kash has taught me more than any family of wolves raising me in the woods ever could.

So if you're unhappy, be glad that you're not being mauled by a puma. But don't be so glad that you get happy and end up getting mauled by a puma. Hold 'er steady.

Hap-- Er, I mean, Tolerable If You're Happy You'll Probably End Up Getting Mauled By A Puma Or Something Day!

If You Sit Still Enough, The Past Might Be Different Day!

If you are very, very quiet and you don't make the slightest bit of noise, all those wrong decisions that are living under your bed might think no one lives in your room anymore and they'll go away and haunt someone else who's more lively (ie. vocally sobbing). Should take about 407 days, but trust me, your past will get bored. Just stay still. Stiller. A little stiller.

Whoops, you blinked. Start over. You do have enough money in the bank to not move for 407 days, right?

You are gonna be so happy when the past disappears and you're suddenly not someone who took the money your parents gave you to pay for the SAT's and instead bought another week of electric guitar lessons.

Happy If You Sit Still Enough, The Past Might Be Different Day!

Every Minute Of Today Is Just Another Minute Of You Looking So Fucking Adorable That It's Going To Start Getting Tedious Day!
By around 3:30 today, you should probably expect people to drop by your cubicle to say, "All right! You can purse your lips in a way that makes us all melt into one giant pool of gooey, syrupy, stinkley, wrinkley, pookypookypooky pile of isn't he or she just so motherfucking adorable!!! We get it, okay? Put it in neutral, teddy bear."

Don't be insulted by this. People just get tired of too much of one thing. Even if that one thing is the shouts of "ohmijesus that's so delicious" you draw out from people's guts whenever you prance (seriously, you don't walk, you fucking prance! Even to the toilet!) past a conference room or the open doors of an overcrowded elevator. It's late summer and people are in full "Been-there" mode. Everyone just wants to go to the beach. Before I go, might I tickle you just under the chin and coo?

Pound For Pound, You're A Better Child-Murderer Than Anybody On The Streets Today Day!

I DON'T WANNA HEAR NONE O' THAT poor wittle me, I ain't no good BULLSHIT!!!

There's a hundred kid killers out there hackin' away and using tired old gags like candy out a car window or shopping cart swipin' and every last one of 'em wishes they could follow your trail of blood for just five paces. Like they'd have the wherewithall to get anything out of it.

I tell you son, I know I'm supposed to be the mentor here, but when I watch you kill kids, it's like church. I feel like I just enrolled in the best damn class my community junior college has to offer. Now put those used underoos back on your head and go get started on some kid killin! You're the best there ever was, best there ever will be.

By the way, your shift at Chuck E Cheeze started a half hour ago. Don't forget to clean the tear-drops off your giraffe costume.

Happy Pound For Pound, You're A Better Child-Murderer Than Anybody On The Streets Today Day!

Everyone's All Alone, But You Most Of All. Shit. Day!
Peek inside the coffee shop window. Just look at all those people telling their problems to their cups of decaf and deluxe gyro platters. Look how they catch your eye, how they try to hold your gaze, wondering "Why can't I just wave him or her in here. Say, 'Come in. Come in. Let's share a friendly evening together.' I've never killed anybody, and I drink and drive! People are safe with me." But inevitably, they just return to their books of Seek and Finds or their tabletop carvings of cock and ball sketches, and you're left to continue your walk. Or is it your search?

It could be said that with all these lonely people trying to find each other, no one is ever really alone. But you seem a little worse off than everyone else. Make that a lot worse. See, lonliness starts to feel like a disease when you start to think that everyone else in the world is happier and has more love in their lives than you do and they spend all their time interrupting body oil applications to share a laugh about how sad your life is. But when someone is happily in love or surrounded by trusting friends and family, all he can think about is the ones he cares about and he might remember when he was alone and he might give thanks for what he has. People who are not in his life really don't concern him. Except for you of course.

It's true, for most people the feeling of being the joke of society is all a head game played to elevate self-pity. But unfortunately, people really do laugh about you. Not laugh in a "That's so hilarious" kind of way. But like, "Holy shit this is one of those horribly tragic situations where all I can do is offer a little laugh to keep from crying." And yeah, there are a lot of people out there who are pretty lonely, but when you come to mind, it perks them up a bit. "Least I'm not that bad off," they say before turning everything around for themselves.

And no, Captain Paranoia, no one's been watching any surveillance tapes of you writhing on your bathroom floor and moaning. But we can tell you do it alot. Not by your eyes so much as by the way you wear your skin.

Happy Everyone's All Alone, But You Most Of All. Shit. Day!

At The Party Tomorrow Night, Don't Talk To Nobody Tomorrow Night, 'Cause You Got That Kinda "Gonna Fall In Love With Somebody" Look On Your Face Day!

Note: Today's Title should be read out loud with a rapid-fire delivery. The letter "T" is a "D". And Commas are brief pauses.

You look medicated is the thing. Stupid. All the "Nothing Matters But My Friends And My Memories Of Autumn" wistfulness of a good drunk without the passing out at the end of the evening. So unhappy that you would be willing to drown yourself in a pair of pretty eyes perched up above a pretty mouth that asks you "Where you been?" Plus, you're romanticizing squalor.

There's a party tomorrow night. At the party tomorrow night, just don't even talk to nobody tomorrow night. In fact, go live with your parents. Or hang around your married friends and let them coddle you ("coddle" should read "pity"). Just get the fuck out of town because you hate everything about the present so much that you're starting to pretend your life is a movie and you don't like movies where no one falls in love with nobody. If you've given up on yourself, turn to drugs. But don't fall in love with nobody. That said, I'll see you at the party tomorrow night, we'll talk at the party tomorrow night and I can't wait to meet the one you think could make everything work out all right you fucking retard.

Happy At The Party Tomorrow Night, Don't Talk To Nobody Tomorrow Night, 'Cause You Got That Kinda "Gonna Fall In Love With Somebody" Look On Your Face Day!

When The Going Gets Tough, Steal As Much Money From Your Sisters As You Can Carry, Sever All Alliances, And Get As Far Away From Your Permanent Mailing Address As You Possibly Can (Then Rebuild) Day!
I once knew this short guy who told me, "Change Is Good." All I could think was, "Yeah, shame you can't change yourself about seven inches taller, Half-pint." I hated that guy even before he got cancer (which was a way shitty move on his part) but I could tell that he had a point. Change is good. Especially when people start getting on your case about not returning DVDs or showing up to Lamaze class loaded on gin. Something's got to give!

Well, you have some sisters don't you? Take all their money (or at least a lot of it if your sister's crippled or involved in a legal battle over a laser she invented and she has to spend money on court fees. That's basically an investment in your future because if she wins the court battle then she'll be totally wealthier). All they ever use it for is pumping food inside their babies and their husbands. Meanwhile, you have some abandoning to do!

Next, send out a mass email that basically says, "Later, shits" to everyone with whom you've allied yourself. "Let's pretend the ties that bind me to you are a few thin ribbons," you might continue. "Well fuck those ribbons!" Then you might choose to reveal some secrets with which you've been trusted. "Hey Jill! Way to fuck Megan's husband in the bathroom last New Years!" This will definitely piss off Jill. And everyone else on the mass email will think, "That was a poor way to handle the situation" or "What a dick!" If you haven't updated your mailing list in a while, you'll probably receive a lot of "Undeliverable" messages in response. Don't worry. Whoever didn't get it will probably hear all about it the next time everyone gets together for a White Trash themed party (since apparently no one's allowed to throw a party anymore unless they make everyone put on a fucking mullet wig).

Next, move far away from your permanent mailing address. In case I need to elaborate on this one, it involves moving your shit to a new house. The post office includes a book of coupons with their change of address forms. Don't even read them. Redeeming those coupons just gives the government another avenue for monitoring your buying habits. Man do I hate the government.

Next, rebuild. And this one isn't just about getting laid. You should also pretend to care if other people live or die so they'll lend you power tools that you can sell.

Happy When The Going Gets Tough, Steal As Much Money From Your Sisters As You Can Carry, Sever All Alliances, And Get As Far Away From Your Permanent Mailing Address As You Possibly Can (Then Rebuild) Day!

Fuck Girls Are Pretty Day!

Seriously. Fuck it straight to fifteenth street. Piece of shit fucking asshole web page. I hope Girls Are Pretty dies.

Happy Fuck Girls Are Pretty Day!

Eavesdrop On A Breakup Day!
If they wanted privacy, they would've stayed at home right? The one who wants out decided to rip up a heart in public so he or she could make a run for it as soon as check hits tabletop. That means they have to put up with lonely people like you who already read the newspaper cover to cover and who are too poor to go see a movie. So fuck it. Sit down at their table if you want so you can hear better and get a closer look at what kinda fine pumpability is about to go on the market. "You're gonna cut that shit loose?" shouts the innocent bystander in disbelief. "What are you, queer?"

If they're cool, they'll explain. In fact, they might be happy to have a third party to explain it to. It's easier to tell the real truth to the lonely, oh so lonely person at the neighboring booth than to tell it all to the one they never wanna see again. "I realize it's rare to find someone you enjoy touching who wants to touch you back," the one doing the dumping might tell you. "But I just think drinking alone might be funner than drinking beside someone who isn't drinking and wants to go out and hike and shit." That's when you move in on the one who wants to go out and hike and shit. Say to him or her, "I love walking around on mountains." Then lie about your drinking problem and make a thinly veiled reference to your genital piercing. You should be knee deep in that tear-stained, on-the-rebound ass before the sun sets over Hike Canyon (check mapquest).

Man, I'm fucking hungry.

They Know Day!
Whether you're an undercover cop or you moved to a new town six months ago where you were certain no one would ever find out you're actually a chick, get outta there! They know.

I knew this one guy who took a job at a Starbucks because he was trying to hide the fact that he wasn't a fan of Moby. Who knows how long he managed to pull the wool over his coworkers' eyes. But it certainly wasn't long before they started playing him. One day, during a slow period (mid-afternoon, an hour before the high school kids across the street started cutting 8th period), two Young People were waiting in line and they mentioned how it'd be cool if that spacesuit Moby wears in that video had been filled with dogshit and Moby had been dipped inside it and the helmet fastened on tight so he might die cast in a suit of poo. My friend, working the "Noisy Machines Station", couldn't help but smirk. And the Frappucino he was whipping up made such a racket that he didn't hear the front door being locked. And when he looked up to offer the two Young People their whipped espresso drink, their eyes had changed. He saw sincerity in them. And he noticed that someone had bought a "Sorry, We're Closed" sign and put it on the door of the Starbucks. Before he knew it, they had him bent backwards, his head underneath the coffee dispenser, his arms tied to the counter with the black counter helper's (the one who you swear you saw dancing in a Gap ad last Christmas) professionally set braids, his legs gone. Scalding hot coffee pumped into his mouth, overflowing down his chest and up over his eyes. He knew he was blind long before he would die. Then they let little kids fuck him. Then they made him wear a "Free Winona" tee shirt. And that's when the conversation about one of his coworker's Pilates class began. Soon, he was being fed to raccoons while some chick shot him in the arm repeatedly with a small gun that didn't do much damage but hurt. All in all, everything about being that guy sucked.

Happy They Know Day!

There's A Reason They Call It Responsibility Day!
Though I have no idea why. What I do know is it's well after noon already and you're not drunk yet! Get on that.

But seriously, no one really believes you're going to come through with all those drunken promises you made last night regarding seeking employment, following through on artistic endeavors, and quitting drinking. Sure, you could prove them wrong if you wanted to be a real shithead who likes to make people feel all wrong and all. Or you could help them to believe in the grace of God in a "There but for the grace of God go I" kinda way. Don't rock the boat is what I'm trying to say. Leave the devotion to task for the poor sap who obviously doesn't know the Balloon Room offers dollar drafts till 7 PM.

Everyone's counting on you. Now get out there and find bottom!

If You Scream When Fire Touches You, That Means You Exist Day!
After going a few weeks of being ignored by bartenders, you start to wonder if you're really there. Every minute of your excruciatingly dull consiousness could just be the passage of a final dream right before your brain dies but right after the doctors have told your remaining family members (distant cousin who sort of remembers seeing you at a wedding 30 years ago), "I'm sorry, he/she is gone. Please collect his Dean Koontz novels from the bedside table as we have to turn over the room." Or you could be the dream in the head of a sleeping evil giant in a far off universe BLAH BLAH BLAH. Either way, you couldn't get a cab to slow down for you if you were in the middle of the intersection sitting on a wheelchair.

If you're certain the possibility of the words "I will always love you" being spoken in your frame of existence is so apocraphyl that you wouldn't even be able to hear them whilst eavesdropping on a conversation at a romantic restaurant (table for one, and yes, you've tried), perhaps you should see if fire still hurts. Go to the stove and hold your forearm over the flame. If you scream, you probably still exist. Either that or the little retarded gnome in whose head you exist as an amusing daydream has a great attention to detail. By the way, if you do exist, you're still the only one who knows it.

Picnic Day!
Tell your friend Steve, "It's your job to bring the frisbee. If you don't bring the frisbee, you're fucking dead!"

Tell your friend Anna, "You're responsible for the cokes. If I don't have a can of coke in my hand within five minutes of my ass touching soil, I swear to God you'll feel a big fucking boot up your ass!"

Tell your kids, "Don't forget the bug candles. Unless you want me to start drinking again. I think we both remember how many times you nearly died when I used to get real loaded and slam your heads against the bed post. Shit, you probably remember better than me, being as you were the sober ones back then. I still say that was all your fault. Least I never tried and fucked ya's. Not my type I guess. Anyway, I get bit by one mosquito and you're gonna wish it ate me whole. I love you both, by the way. Just sayin'."

Tell your spouse, "Make sandwiches. NOW!"

Tell your coworker who just recently got a divorce so all of a sudden he or she has to be invited out by all these people who never really gave a shit about him or her before and the whole fucking city's supposed to try to get him or her laid as some kind of payoff for not being able to keep a family from disintegrating, "Just bring yourself. I'll take care of everything. Including the ass I'm supposed to set you up with."

Tell your grandmom, "I SAID MOOOOVE BITCH!!!"

Look into the mirror and tell yourself, "Even if someone fucks up and you have to beat the living shit out of them, it's ultimately your fault. The universe will demand your suicide by self-immolation. Now go get some fresh air."

Happy Picnic Day!

Why Should I Bother To Learn To Play The Piano If I'll Never Be As Good As A Skeleton? Day!
It's humbling, isn't it? You can start taking lessons when you're five years old, practice every day, and even get enough skills to impress friends at wedding receptions. Until a skeleton walks in of course.

No one can rock out at the keys like an undead human dried bare of skin and tissue. They bend that musty spinal column in over the black and whites like they're getting in position for a bump and grind. And sure, they only seem to know how to play The Twist and Tutti Frutti, but look at that grin! I swear I can see beads of sweat flying free of that pearly white cranium. Just don't stop dancing. Sometimes when a skeleton sees that people aren't really into The Twist or Tutti Frutti, it'll open it's jaw wide and fill the room with shrieking ghouls.

Happy Why Should I Bother To Learn To Play The Piano If I'll Never Be As Good As A Skeleton? Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Drinking Alcohol In Other Cities Doesn't Count!" Weekend!!!
Pretty Girl is leaving town again. Tomorrow morning her hideous little ass will be on a plane. Destination: SIN. Or rather, Destination: Crabs.

No, nobody's going to Maryland. But man is somebody going to get crabs! Anyway, next three posts below. Usual bullshit. Read the bottom one first. Don't read ahead or everyone's going to tell you you look queer in those new pants you bought. Have a safe day. Don't fall in love with nobody.

Sunday, August 4, 2002

Wonder If That Smell Is You Or Just The Dead Guy You Buried Under The Floorboards Until You Remember You Never Buried A Dead Guy Under The Floorboards, But Just To Make Sure Dig Under Your Floor And Check, But It's Probably Just You You Rank Pig Day!
Today's the day to eventually get around to blaming the pasty strip of sweat in your asscrack for that horrifying stench. After exhausting all other fantastic possibilities of course, including the one where you for some reason deposited a corpse underneath the floorboards of your own home. Do you remember having anything to do with a murder? Don't think too hard because you'd have to be pretty high up on the accomplice list to be the one who gets to keep the body. Anything? Okay, dig under your living room if you want. I'll wait as long as it takes to finally see the look on your face when you realize that you stink like cheese.

Saturday, August 3, 2002

Give All Of Your Money To Your Pets Day!
Today's the day you withdraw all of your money from the bank in the form of a cashier's check and hand it over to your pets. Sit them down in the living room. Cats might not want to stay so try to hem them in with couch cushions or put big dictionaries on top of them so they can't move. Then explain at length that you wanted to give them all the chances you never had. They won't listen, or at least they won't understand, because they're pets. Present the check to them. Let them smell it and then walk away from it. Then kill all of your pets. Drown them.

Friday, August 2, 2002

Stop Touching Your Boss Day!
True, you can't quite call it sexual harrassment since you're not even sure if there's anything sexual about it. But regardless, there is something just not right about your boss having asked you to touch him on his arm once a day before 11:30 in the morning. Or, in his words, "Before 11:30 or I'm not sure what might transpire. I dare not imagine!" And then he ran away.

It's just fucked up. Cut it out. By the way, to celebrate Stop Touching Your Boss Day there's a sale at a store. Hurry.

Mock A Telemarketer Day!
Telemarketers aren't allowed to hang up. Also, human beings don't like to call other human beings and harrass them into buying things. Therefore, telemarketers hate the present. So, why not make things worse? Instead of politely repeating over and over again "No, I'm not interested," or just flat out hanging up on them (which is what they're hoping you'll do in the first place), why not try making fun of them? When they say, "Are you happy with your current long distance carrier, Ma'am?" mimic what they say word for word, but in a loud, high-pitched, buffoonish voice. Then you could add, "OOOH! LOOK AT ME, I'M A WITTLE TELEMARKETER! CUDDLY WITTLE TELEMARKETER! WON'T YOU SNUGGLE-WUGGLE WIV ME?!!! I NO KNOW HOW TO PURSUE MY WITTLE BABY GOALS!!!!" Then put your forearm to your mouth and make fart noises into the phone.

Happy Mock A Telemarketer Day!

"You're Wrong About Her. She's Got More Heart In Her Little Pinky Than You Have In Your Entire...Heart...Um...I Mean...Um..." Day!

The above is only one example of how you should observe the day. Make it your own, but just make sure you listen calmly, tolerantly, to whomever is trying to deprive you of your only shot at real happiness or fill you with all the doubt he or she (Father, usually, but Moms and lifelong housemaids serving as proxy for Moms fallen to consumption are awesome too) has fed upon ever since a certain choice was taken out of his or her hands. Let them believe their warnings are being heeded, their wisdom appreciated. Until they cross the line.

That's when you drop everything, or slam a book down on a desktop. Or throw a glass of brandy against the wall. Jump out of your chair and stand nose to nose with the old curmudgeon/barren shrew and tell him or her what you've kept hidden all these years. Unleash the pity you've tried to conceal ever since you were old enough to think for yourself. And, with one sentence, put your foot down, effectively shutting him or her off from your life and the decisions that are yours alone to make.

But fuck it up.

Mixed metaphors are hazy since a lot of people might not catch it. This is the defining moment of your life, the speech that determines how you're going to handle your looming adulthood, so it should look like a blooper reel, dig? Stammering and blanking on words is great. Hiccups, even better. Or wait, what if you get so angry that right when you tell the old prune to butt out, you fart. A quick "POOT!" This is gonna rule.

Happy "You're Wrong About Her. She's Got More Heart In Her Little Pinky Than You Have In Your Entire...Heart...Um...I Mean...Um..." Day!

You Have A Can-Do Entrepreneurial Spirit And You Should Run With That Hardcore Pornographic Placemats Idea Day!
Americans, or at least the Americans I'll allow my kids to consort with, love two things above all else:

1. Photographs of penises in mouths. The more the better!

2. Lifting up their plates of food to see what's underneath!

Well what'll happen if Joe Six-Pack and Jane Supporting-Joe-Six-Pack siddown at the table with their rugrats and they lift up their plates to check for spiders or angels like they always do and what do they see but the most glorious color photographs of human mouths full to the brim with knob?!

They'll wanna kick a pay phone they'll be so hooked, that's what! You're gonna be rich [this is where whoever's speaking says your name to personalize this whole shebang for you, the reader. Who is speaking anyway? And why is he or she trying to sell you on the idea of pornographic placemats if it was your idea in the first place?]! Let's go buy some land!

Happy You Have A Can-Do Entrepreneurial Spirit And You Should Run With That Hardcore Pornographic Placemats Idea Day!

Redefine Hell With Every Waking Moment Of Your Life Day!
"This has got to be as close to hell as you can get," says the guy sitting at his shared cubicle, drenched with the sweat of the 105 degree-with-humidity heat he trudged through to get to work this morning. "I even feel a little shakey with longing for the substance to which I'm growing addicted," he says aloud, proving he might also be losing a grip on his frame of mind. "And to top it all off, I have this nagging suspicion I'm going to die with a false sense of entitlement, owing to the innate talent I have always possessed but never applied to any project of real and obvious substance. This has gotta be the definition of hell, right?"

Just then, he is mouth-raped by an elderly man. "I stand corrected," says the guy we were just talking about up there in the previous paragraph. Just up there.

Happy Redefine Hell With Every Waking Moment Of Your Life Day!

Poor, Blind And Unable To Take Care Of Yourself For A Day Day!
Put your blindfolds on tight and just wander out into the street without having put on any shoes or pants or anything. A good hunk of you all will probably end up getting run over in the first five minutes, killing many. And so you'll have learned what it's like to be poor, blind and unable to take care of yourself. Shitting in your pants and walking into women's dressing rooms because you don't know how to use the toilet and you can't see where your going but you just keep wandering around town with no money or vision or basic survival skills. By the end of the day, you're gonna be so exhausted and you'll feel like a dick for all these years having made fun of people who can't see, buy lunch, or hold in farts. Not so easy is it?

(Note: A lot of you seem to enjoy doing a "retarded" voice. But not everyone who is unable to take care of himself is retarded. Many are just nuts. Please use the "retarded" voice sparingly. Thank you [dick].)

Sleep Like It's Going To Bring Your Most Beloved Childhood Pet Back To Life Day!
This isn't about just heading into REM state with a do-not-disturb look on your face. Sleep so hard you have to grimace. Grind your body deep into your mattress, clawing and growling and occasionally shouting a swear word. Sleep like you're so unconscious you're shitting out a second unconscious person who's even more unconscious than you. This is for Mr. Toes goddammit, now don't fucking quit on me! If you're not bleeding out of one nostril in the next five minutes I'm gonna steal your wallet. Are you dreaming? You are, aren't you. Well you better be dreaming about sleeping in between two mirrors so there's just like seventy five thousand sleeping yous. Remember, if you don't sleep hard enough and Mr. Toes doesn't come back to life, this time you really did kill him. It's not just your Dad saying stupid shit after a bender like before. You killed Mr. Toes.

Happy Sleep Like It's Going To Bring Your Most Beloved Childhood Pet Back To Life Day!

After A Hard Week At Work You Deserve To Go Home And Get Real Drunk And Pregnant Day!
1. Take your shoes off and turn the tv on.
2. Don't just take off your clothes. Frantically shimmy out of them like they're spotted with the blood of the former junior college professor you've just murdered.
3. Open up a bottle of gin and mount something, bouncing up and down until it impregnates you like twice.
4. Cuddle. Meet friends for drinks in celebration of freshly conceived baby.
5. Beddy bye for you two kittens.

Happy After A Hard Week At Work You Deserve To Go Home And Get Real Drunk And Pregnant Day!

I Think I Left My Religious Conviction In Your Pants Day!
I've been looking all over for my love of Christ. Can you check the rancid strip of crusted genital scuz on the crotch of your underwear and see if it's in there? Give it a whiff. My love of Christ smells like poverty. Call me if you find it. I'm gonna go post some signs around the neighborhood. Even if no one's found my love of Christ, maybe I'll get some of that fine fine ass I've been hearing so much about to give a negro a phone call.

By the way, and you know who you are, you're about as close to perfect as anything will ever come so drink wine and sing songs that are faggy.

Express Disapproval Of The Existence Of Your Red-Headed Step-Child Day!
Whether you're married to the sweetheart or you are just living with the cutie pie because he or she gets bigtime disability and doesn't mind that you turned the kitchen into a meth lab, love is love. And love means warts and all.

Well no one likes to be reminded that their best guy or gal was once involved with someone who had red hair, which is why it turns the stomach to see the progeny of that relationship walking past the tv with a stack of oreos in his or her freckled little hands. It's like the sun-stained little urchin's very existence sends rasberries into your face with chants of "My Mommy/Daddy fucked a redhead so hard their coarse thrusting resulted in all 75 pounds of unholy me that stands before you drinking a cup of grape juice. Look at my red hair! No one would ever mistake me for your child! I am proof that your lover had sex with someone else in the past, at least once though probably a lot of times, because you have to have sex with millions of people before you finally look at someone with red hair and say to yourself, 'What the heck. Might make for a funny story at least.'"

Well then, why not let your red-headed step-child know you would prefer that he or she had never been born. Hitting works. But locking the beast in the closet can really send a message as well, though if you do that often enough the Damien will be expecting it so he or she will start stashing some toys in there to play with the next time. Oh, that's a good one too, breaking the little monster's favorite toy I mean. You do drink, don't you?

Just Because You Can't Remember Anything About Last Night, It Doesn't Necessarily Mean That You're An Alcoholic Day!
Perhaps you were molested. Oftentimes, when someone gets fucked by his or her Dad but isn't really into it, the reluctant little tease's brain goes into whitewash mode and attempts to replace the memory of all that sweet sweet lovin' with something far less erotic, usually involving a chicken.

Do you remember anything about your Dad fucking a chicken last night? If so, he was probably fucking you.

Take a look at this excerpt from a therapy session that took place in the 50's:

Hawkeye: And then my Dad said, "I sure love fucking this chicken!" And the chicken said, "I'm not really into it, Dad."

Dr. Sidney: The chicken spoke? And it called your Dad, "Dad?"

Hawkeye: (wailing) Awww God! IT WAS A BABY!

Dr. Sidney: No it wasn't. Your Dad just fucked you but you didn't really dig it is all.

So if you remember your Dad fucking a chicken last night, or if you fucked a chicken (which would mean you fucked one of your kids but you made the first move) you aren't necessarily an alcoholic. But now you might become one because you'll be frightened of that memory about the chicken but you won't know why. So you'll just keep trying to drink your mind blank to avoid ever finding out what's up with the whole chicken fucking shebang. Happy Just Because You Can't Remember Anything About Last Night, It Doesn't Necessarily Mean That You're An Alcoholic Day!

Wonder Why The Fuck You Haven't Been Lolling Around In Your Living Room Wearing Nothing But A Wet Towel For the Past Few Hours Day!
Oh man did you ever fuck up. Had someone offered you two bowls of fate when you were in bed this morning, one full to the brim of nice hot lolling-around-your-living-room-wearing-nothing-but-a-wet-towel-for-a-bunch-of-hours, the other a cold consumme of minutes-taking at the Goal 2003 Database Blueprinting Bi-Weekly Projects Meeting (outside the door it says the conference room was reserved from 10 AM till 3 PM), which would you have chosen? Have you ever felt such a gust of cold gray air blowing just underneath your skin as you did just then? Imagine if you were laying on your couch right now, the wet spot spreading out underneath your ass across the slipcover, eating sour cream and chedder potato chips for breakfast, crumbs all over your chest, watching a Warren Beatty movie co-starring Garry Shandling on the Starz network and you get to touch your genitals in a non-masturbatory way any time you feel like it because the place is all yours.

So tell me, do you try to outline the minutes while you handwrite them or do you save that for the several hours you'll spend typing them up after the meeting's over at 3 PM if no one runs long (which everyone will)? Happy Wonder Why The Fuck You Haven't Been Lolling Around In Your Living Room Wearing Nothing But A Wet Towel For the Past Few Hours Day!

Doodle A Cock And Balls Day!
You haven't doodled a cock and balls in ages! Remember how much fun it used to be? How many public school desktops must've shown your work over the years? Go on. Doodle a cock and balls. You can even put it on a post-it and stick it to your spouse's forehead while he or she is napping. That'd be funny.

Offer Someone You're Into Fifty Bucks To Think About You When He Or She Wakes Up Alone In Bed Tomorrow Morning Day!
Throw in another 25 if he or she will promise to wear a crooked little smile that says, "What the heck am I doing thinking about [you!] lying here damp with the sweat of a night alone in my tiny non-airconditioned bedroom, my legs bent off into different directions and dumb angles and my tee shirt riding halfway up my torso way high up above my belly button and it's connecting strip of pubic hair climbing down into this old ripped up pair of sleeping-alone underwear and first thing in my mind is [you!]? Guess I'm lookin' for trouble."

Oh shit. If you get away with only spending 75 for this, the person you're into is a whore because this shit is worth 500. If he or she says it would be wrong to take money for something he or she does every morning anyway, you'll probably lose all interest because he or she will have presented him or herself as attainable. Happy Offer Someone You're Into Fifty Bucks To Think About You When He Or She Wakes Up Alone In Bed Tomorrow Morning Day!

If Your Caller ID Screen Reads: "The Last Straw," Let The Answering Machine Get It (Unless You Know Somebody Who Works At A Straw Store) Day!
A lot of your friends have weird jobs, and you know one or two of them work at the mall. If I was gonna open a straw store, I'd call it The Last Straw since it has fewer letters than "The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back" and when store owners get signs made, they pay by the letter. Now, can you remember whether any of your friends ever mentioned that they could get you a discount on bendy straws? How about swirly straws? Loop-di-loop straws? If not, I wouldn't take that call if I was you.

In fact, you should really get any handguns or weapons of mass destruction out of reach of yourself because when whoever is on the other end of that line says what he or she has to say, it's probably going to be just one more disappointment in a long line of disappointments and it might send you out into the world to scoop a little "Payback Salad" onto folks' dinner plates. And if someone hates cherry tomatoes, guess what?

Dickhead's getting an extra helping of cherry tomatoes, that's what.

You might wanna destroy the answering machine before you hear the message, actually. You don't have to be holding the phone to your ear to hear someone say something that elicits from you something along the lines of: "That is it! Game Over! Board up the windows, yo, 'cause Hurricane [insert your name here] is comin' down the turnpike and it ain't payin' no tolls!"

Possible messages from "The Last Straw" to follow:

"It's over. I can't try any harder. I'm going back to [insert name of better paid, less physically repulsive former lover of significant other here]. You're just so angry at the world."

"Thanks for coming in for that fourth interview, but we decided to hire This Other Guy."

"This is the cancer clinic calling. Just wanted to say our first diagnosis was wrong. You have cancer in parts of the body we didn't even know existed. Someone upstairs has it in for you. Please don't call back."

"This is the government of America. We just passed laws that make it nearly impossible for an American like you to earn an honest living. We hope this news doesn't make you go batshit or anything. This is the government calling by the way. Did I already say that? I'm a little out of it this morn-- [BEEEEP]"

"Hi, this is happiness. Is this [name that isn't yours]? It isn't. Whoops, wrong number."

"Honey, it's Mom. I'm about to die but I wanted to say I never really dug you all that much. Later, yo."

Ouch. I'd stay to help you get through this, but my shift at the Paper Ring That Keeps Cups Of Coffee From Being Too Hot store starts in twenty minutes.

Anybody Remember To Cut Him Or Herself A Piece Of "I'm A Filthy Whore" Cake? Day!
Carvel might not have these on display. But trust me, they sell 'em.

Now come on, for God's sake. You work hard all day just pawning away all those pieces of yourself into which you might have invested a little pride. You run the hustle and you skim the till. You lie and you scam and in the end you'd partake in a haggle over the asking price for your baby's asthma pump. When you walk past a church nuns shout "There he/she is!" and then they run out to the sidewalk to kick you in the genitals. I don't care if you're selling the land out from under an assisted living facility to make way for a parking lot or you're in the truck stop ladies room from 10 PM till 2 AM performing oral sex for crystal meth. You're a filthy whore and you're way fucking good at it. It's time you got some goddamn cake.

Sorry, but I'm sick of this shit. My Dad was given a cake last September just because he turned 68. And here you are sanding away at every characteristic of your person that might designate you a member of the human race as opposed to, well, a cunt, and do you get a cake? Sure, the Guide Dogs For The Blind Association was good enough to put your face on a poster that reads: "God May Have Taken Our Vision, So Fuck God, But This Guy Made It So We Can't Bring Our Dogs Into Grocery Stores, So Double-Motherfuck This Guy!" but did they give you a cake? And it wouldn't have had to say "Way To Be A Filthy Whore, Douche!" They could've written, "You Made The Poster!" and the whole filthy whore thing would've been implied. Christ.

Happy Anybody Remember To Cut Him Or Herself A Piece Of "I'm A Filthy Whore" Cake? Day! Now get your hand outta my pocket shitbag.

Commit A String Of Murders, Mindboggling In Their Horrific Detail, And Turn Yourself In, Agreeing To Confess Only If You're Permitted To Defend Yourself And Testify During Your Televised Trial Via A Sockpuppet With A Loud, High-Pitched, Scottish Accent Named Count Wiggle-Fuckface Day!
They probably won't let you do it. But still, you never know. Let's play it by ear.

We'll start with the string of murders, perhaps following a complicated system involving choice of victim and method of assault. For example: Your husband was laid off at age 51 and hasn't been rehired in six years. You're a pastry chef at a ritzy restaurant where 26 year olds earning six figures are at the top of the reservation list. Start killing them. Just get your hands on one name and cell phone number off that reservation list every night and wait a few days to track the tyke down. And how about you throw your victims out windows, so everyone but the veteran detective on the case thinks it's just brokers jumping out of windows again. Since everyone who's anyone eats at your restaurant, it'll take a while before the heat gets too hot in the kitchen (pun intended). Look, it's just an example.

Once you're caught, the DA won't like the idea of you being permitted to defend yourself and testify during your televised trial via a sockpuppet with a loud, high-pitched, scottish accent named Count Wiggle-Fuckface as he/she will think you're trying to get off with an insanity defense. Explain that you'll agree to a psych evaluation and you will pass with flying colors and the DA can convince the jury that not only are you sane and responsible for the crimes in question, but you are so cowardly that you are trying to pull crazy antics to skirt the punishment you deserve. The jury will cook your ass so fast you'd think they all just pitched in for a George Foreman grill and can't wait to see why everyone's ejaculating all over the place over a fucking waffle iron that looks like an iMac.

In honor of Commit A String Of Murders, Mindboggling In Their Horrific Detail, And Turn Yourself In, Agreeing To Confess Only If You're Permitted To Defend Yourself And Testify During Your Televised Trial Via A Sockpuppet With A Loud, High-Pitched, Scottish Accent Named Count Wiggle-Fuckface Day, let's keep the partial birth abortions to a minimum. Dig?

You're Shooting Heroin Into Your Labia All Wrong!! Day!
Fucking amateurs.

First of all, let's set some shit on fire in this place. Start with the mismatched sneakers you were hanging on to as the only remembrance of the baby you sold yesterday. No one's gonna buy them so let's set them on fire and throw them under the curtains. If you're gonna stick a needle with wet yellowish bile all over the tip into your labia majora, you better do it in a building that's about to crumble all around your oblivious junky ass.

Second, you call those eyelids vomit encrusted?!

Third, will you marry me? Just say yes. We're going for irony here, so let's play with the kind of respect for the future that is so far removed from a world where someone such as yourself might choose to stab into her vaginal tissue with an instrument of near-certain death.

Fourth, I get to go first so while I fall on my side, careful not to snap the needle while still dangling from my scrotum, you should look off wistfully at a memory of your high school graduation or your mother waving to you from behind the barred window of an insane asylum or something like that. Betray no emotion while in transit down memory lane, however.

Fifth, I'm going to choke on some vomit and die, so you're going to have to pull the needle out of my balls yourself. I won't be there to lead you through the next few steps so I hope you read ahead.

Sixth, give yourself one last once-over, hoping against hope that there's a pretty little virgin vein that all these years was just kind of shy and leaning with her back against the wall afraid of someone asking her to dance. Accidentally slip your thumb inside a wound on your neck and scream.

Seventh, keep screaming.

Eighth, pound in my skull with a brick. I took you down this road after all. (I loved you baby.)

Ninth, shake and bake. Careful. Now pull down your pants and go so numb your pulse is weaker than mine.

Tenth.

Um, happy You're Shooting Heroin Into Your Labia All Wrong!! Day!

I Think That German Guy Wearing The "Get A Job" Tee Shirt, The One With The Drawing Of The Angry Skeleton Forcing The Other Skeleton To Perform Oral Sex On His Empty Pelvis, Likes You Day!
That's right, the one with his hair done up in three pony tails with his bangs shaved who keeps screaming at the band "Rock and rolling great fuck!" He keeps smiling over here and pretending to fellate his bottle of Smirnoff Ice, but I doubt that means he likes to fellate things, more that he wonders if you like to fellate things. Do you like him? Because he gave me this note to give to you:

Hammy burgers. This is German MEN. Eat the hammy burgers and then the disco. You fuck faster?!

___ Chek if I am true

___ Chek when you have boyfriend all right.

Well?! What'd you check?

When A Car Drives Past Your Window Blasting That Jewel Song Where She Says "You Can Be Henry Miller And I'll Be Anais Nin" But She Pronounces Anais Like An Asshole, That's The Signal Day!
Dressed in the Boy With Beautiful Eyes Who Has Cancer disguise, go to your rooftop and release the Falcon. Off the south edge of the rooftop will be a neighboring rooftop, fifteen feet below. You will see a television antenna. Impale yourself upon it, secure in the knowledge that the operation has commenced and by the way good work coming up with a signal that couldn't be mistaken for just a coincidence. We honestly thought Eminem's "Without Me" wouldn't catch on the way it did. Happy When A Car Drives Past Your Window Blasting That Jewel Song Where She Says "You Can Be Henry Miller And I'll Be Anais Nin" But She Pronounces Anais Like An Asshole, That's The Signal Day!

Ask Your Blind Date Whether He Or She Can Ever Hear The Sound Of Blood Screaming Through His Or Her Veins Day!
The hard part is finding the right moment. I've always been a big fan of the seventh lull in the conversation, about that time when the both of you realize the date isn't going very well but you haven't even gotten your entrees yet. Just fold your napkin with about twelve sharp creases, wincing with each fold, and place it on your plate before you take his or her hand and say, "I need to ask you an important question and I'll know if you answer dishonestly so don't."

Of course, whether the date is going well or not has nothing to do with the necessity that The Question be posed. Let's say penetration has commenced. You suddenly remember that The Question was never asked. No problem, start sobbing. Just let out a few wails, sending a gale of fists into the mattress or vestibule wall until your date gets the message that you have something important to ask. Your date will say, "Tell me. I want to know what's wrong." But your date will be a liar which is why you should let him or her watch you slice open the skin of your palm with a nail file a few times before you take his or her face into your bloody grip and say, "At night I never sleep. Even if I turn the radio on at full volume I can't escape it. Blood. My blood with the voice of a thousand ghouls racing through my veins. Do you ever feel that way? Like your blood is screaming? It sounds like hungry babies." Then run.

Happy Ask Your Blind Date Whether He Or She Can Ever Hear The Sound Of Blood Screaming Through His Or Her Veins Day!

Feast Upon Your Regret Like It's The Lifelong Scourge Upon Your People, Responsible For The Death Of Your Extended Family, At Long Last Slain And Roasted Upon A Spit At The Foot Of A Simmering Volcano Day!
Of course everything would have worked out much better had you minored in Japanese Literature as opposed to Theater Studies. Well don't just sigh and think, "If only Banana Yoshimoto didn't write such shitty books. Then I might not dig fucking kids so much." Actually let that decision take the form of a centuries-old twelve foot wilderbeast that could sweep into your village like a cold wind through the joins of the perimeter wall, stealing away the young and the old indiscriminately, only to leave them torn wide and stretched like a throw rug deep in the thicket. Well a mysterious drifter (Costner) recently arrived to the village, pursuant to an agreement to slay the beast in an exchange for gasoline, has returned from battle victorious with the gargantuan carcass in tow. The drifter died of his wounds before he could receive his reward, adding that much more weight to the celebration of the beast's demise. Feed upon its body. It will sustain you for as long as you can stand the bitter taste. Just as a village can gorge upon such a pestilence, so can one father's regret feed an entire family for years and years until a glass of arsenic is placed upon a death bed's nightstand. Pass the pepper, yo.

Take A Pottery Class In The Hopes That Your Real Father Will Be The Instructor Day!
You'll be his star pupil. He'll find in your ashtrays and car key-chain caddies the seeds of a master pottery...whatever (potter?). He'll devote more attention to you than to the rest of the class, largely because he thinks your pot making is awesome, but something in his bones will tell him there's more to it than that. He'll need to be near you and if you're of the gender he likes to fist, he might mistake the need for a sexual one. You'll run crying from the classroom when he makes a move but you'll leave behind a clue to the fact that he's your real dad, like a surveillance photo of him dropping you off at an orphanage or DNA test results you obtained by slicing off a piece of his elbow when he showed up to class wasted and passed out on his desk (have you ever been to the Learning Annex?). After you skip your next class he'll probably show up at your job (you either wait tables at a diner or are a senator) and he'll say "I could tell by the way you pottered that you have the blood of a potteryer flowing through your veins. I just never imagined it was mine." Then he'll give you his sob story about being too young to raise a kid blah blah. Don't cut him any slack. Tell him you have customers to take dinner orders from or bills to vote on and that he can wait for you to make time for him.

He will. He's your father.

If the guy teaching your pottery class isn't your real father or is a woman or if you already know who your real father is, pipe down.

Happy Take A Pottery Class In The Hopes That Your Real Father Will Be The Instructor Day!

Are You Ever Afraid That Your Smile Might Make Someone Spit On A Cop? Day!
I remember when I first saw you smile I screamed "Fucking No!" then I started chasing a squirrel. Luckily, the squirrel didn't run in front of a bus or into a women's locker room so I didn't die or get hit in the face with soap, but what if?

It's clear that when you smile it makes people...well...do things. Things that are unbecoming of the sort of person who just wants to sit in silence and ponder Christ. Things that can make a Mom put her hand over a child's eyes. Dangerous things. Naughty things that two eight year old boys might do behind a garage just because it's summertime. It's your smile, what I'm saying, that puts the idea into the head of someone who sees you smile to go ahead and rent the wrong pornography ("wrong pornography" should read "pornography with a futuristic plot and a small budget for costumes"). And what about that pornography where everyone looks like they're covered in clown makeup? What the fuck is wrong with some people?

We were discussing your smile weren't we? Here's the thing. One day you're going to smile at a citizen and that citizen, who might have indigent relatives to visit for all you know, will just turn to his or her right and spit on a cop and then where are we? This isn't the 70's. Yes, people are usually cunts so when the spitter gets shot or shived in prison it will probably be "about fucking time" in the words of the poor bastard who made the mistake of falling in love with such a douchebag back when he or she was uncertain about stuff. But still, you don't know. So cut into your lips with a citrus knife. Slice big slits from the surface of that plum red upper lip way up through the bronzed and shimmery skin and go into that adorable little baby nostril (MOTHERFUCK!) and make sure to actually remove a small chunk of skin so things don't heal right because knowing you you would probably wear a scar like the belt that makes your outfit just barely work. Leave the bottom lip alone. The world should remember what once was and it should mourn and drink in daylight. It's settled then.

Don't Be Poor Day!
Why don't you have lots of money?

Fucking answer me!

I knew someone like you before. Murray, the lovable neighborhood retard who everyone tolerated because when we asked him to he would dance. Murray didn't have lots of money. But he was also one time driven deep into the cemetery and forced to strip down and fellate teenage boys and then left out there to nearly freeze to death. No one's seen Murray in a while. No one ever asks about him either. If he's dead, it has nothing to do with the cemetery thing because that happened years ago and Murray survived and even played video games at the pizza place with those boys sometimes.

Did that ever happen to you? If it did, whatever. You should really try to get lots of money though. As it is now, you're just kinda grossing everybody out.

Happy Don't Be Poor Day! Don't touch me.

Organize A Workplace Morale Building Whitewater Rafting Trip For You And Your Fellow Toll Booth Attendants Day!
The hard part will be finding rapids nearby, since 9 out of ten of your fellow employees, including yourself, would be in violation of their parole if they left the state. Kind of ironic, working on an interstate highway whilst you yourself are prohibited from interstate travel. Almost like every single car is thumbing its nose at you. "Way to go convict! Look what I can do that you can't!!!" Little do they know that that goat-tee you're not smiling through was once dripping with the blood from the tendon of another man's shoulder clenched between your jaws (but not in a gay way).

They unlocked the cage and put you in a box, what they did. That drawer there got about 700 dollars in it already. What's the plan, convict? Next guy pull up gonna get ripped from his window by the esophagus? Borrow yourself a new Lexus with a "Born To Lose" bumper sticker on the back? Or you maybe wait it out till lunchtime? Sit down at the Grover Cleveland Rest Area Roy Rogers and poke through some Rafting brochures?

Your move convict. Happy Organize A Workplace Morale Building Whitewater Rafting Trip For You And Your Fellow Toll Booth Attendants Day!

It's The Girls Are Pretty "Oh Dear God What Have I Done?" Week!
Looks like today's the day that Pretty Girl is sending the last few years tumbling end over end into the big black nothing. No, silly, no one's opening up any wrists. But a one way plane ticket will be redeemed and an air mattress will be inflated. Out of respect for the alcohol intake to come, Girls Are Pretty is giving you the next week's posts all at once. Don't blow your wad. Scroll to the bottom for today's and then save tomorrow's for tomorrow. Even if you have no intention of observing each day's holiday, do you really feel your life is full enough to go without reading something stupid and new on the internet for a whole week? Ration it.

Sunday, July 7, 2002

Don't Even Open Your Eyes Day!
You saw it all yesterday. Some buildings. One or two cute babies. A guy pissing on a bank. Where's the suspense? Just keep your eyes closed and pretend you live in Lavender Footie Pajama World where everyone and everything is made of pie.

Saturday, July 6, 2002

Ask That Cunt Who Runs The Lotto Machine At Friends' Tavern To Marry You Day!
Goddamnit when are you going to realize happiness isn't just gonna walk up and bite you on the ass? That cunt who runs the lotto machine at Friend's Tavern would make you a damn good wife, and frankly, she's the only woman you've spoken to since Easter Sunday. You're still holding a grudge because when the jackpot was up to 95 million and you let her pick the numbers for your 147th ticket she picked all losers but for Christ's sake perfect girls go to Hollywood. You gotta settle for what you can reach out and grab. Her name's Allison by the way.

You never know, maybe if you get married before you turn 57 some long lost uncle will die and leave you millions of dollars just like I think I saw happen in a movie once.

Friday, July 5, 2002

Don't Feed Your Kids Day
I honestly hate this day, I really do. It's actually because of this holiday that I gave custody of my daughter back to my ex last year. I just couldn't handle being so cruel. Even for the other 364 days it would haunt me. I would shower her with love, but I knew it was just me compensating for the torment to come and it started to feel like she knew too. This is just too too miserable a day for me and if there's some higher reason for it that I can't comprehend, that only proves that this universe is really the bottom of the fucking barrel.

And I'm afraid the loopholes aren't valid. The name of the day would imply that kids who can walk and talk could be taught to run out and get food for themselves. But all research suggests that, historically, people have always observed the day by literally prohibiting their children from eating. Fucking awful.

Thursday, July 4, 2002

Skinnydip. But alone. And Quietly. Day!
Today is that special summer day when everyone has to swim naked and alone just like when we weren't born yet. No splashing or rope swinging (excuse the pun) either. Just nice even strokes out into the middle of the pond, tread a bit, then back again. You can stay out there all you want but, unfortunately, this is a very sacred holiday in most parts of the US. And even if someone saw you out there and was just bursting with the need to shout, "Mind if I join you?" or "If I swim out there to you will you have sex with me?" he or she will more often than not respect the holiday and your right to celebrate it by leaving you be.

Happy Skinnydip. But alone. And Quietly. Day!

Wednesday, July 3, 2002

Policewomen Are Amazing In Bed Day!
And the awesome thing is, and a lot of people don't know this, but policewomen are in fact allowed to have sex with people who aren't policemen. They can have sex with strip club owners and restaurateurs and ex-husbands, even battered women who need a place to sleep after the shelter's already closed for the night! And underneath their hat is this unbelievable head of long brown hair wrapped up in a bun that they let cascade down when they're up for it. But be careful. If you're not good at having sex and you have sex with a policewoman, she might plant heroin on you.

Happy Policewomen Are Amazing In Bed Day!

Tuesday, July 2, 2002

Get Loaded And Tell The New Friendlier ATM Screen That It Doesn't Know Anything About You And It Can Go Fuck Itself Day!
And then pee on it. But seriously, this big money spitting fuckwad of a computer thinks it can stupid up its lingo and suddenly you two are gonna be best friends? Fuckin' fake motherfucker talkin' down to you?! When's it been there for you? Where was he when your wife was deliverin' your third daughter and you was on third shift at the dreamcatcher factory with no sick time and damn right you were gonna get canned if you split. Countin' money's where. You're buddy, Ray, that's a friend. Fuckin' bankboy ho.

Now pee on it.

Monday, July 1, 2002

DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! Day!
I don't care if you have strawberry jam on your toast every morning. Today's the day to have some second thoughts. It don't matter about what. Just be uncertain. Got a gut feeling that you're doing the right thing? Well you just doubt yourself enough and that gut feeling is gonna turn into a nice debilitating yet companionable ulcer in no time. There are some bumper stickers for sale by the bathrooms, just so you know. Here's the top seller:

"You've Been Wrong Before.
Why Not Now?"

Cute huh? How 'bout this one:

"Vacillators Do It Eventually Maybe"

Make sure you pick one up for your brother-in-law who is a riot. Now go out there and tackle that Monday but please try not to do anything rash.

Happy DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! DOUBT! Day!